


Duets

by orphan_account



Series: Chamber Music [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Music AU, String!Lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 18:57:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>String!Lock AU: Sherlock's not the only string player in 221B, and John's not getting out of playing something with his new flatmate. Set at the beginning of the BBC Series. Previously posted on fanfiction.net.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Duets

“I play the violin sometimes. Will that bother you?”  
“Beg your pardon?”  
“Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other.”  
“Oh, um, well no. It won’t bother me. I actually play the viola, myself.”  
Sherlock quirks an eyebrow, but says nothing further. Uncomfortable, John clears his throat and asks, “So, are you very good then ? At violin ?”  
“Of course.” Obvious. “Now, if you’ll forgive me, I really must dash.”  
“Hang on; I don’t even know your name. Or where we’re meeting. Or anything about you.”  
“The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is two-two-one B Baker Street.” And in a flash of gangly limbs, the consulting detective was gone.   
***  
Looking back, John will swear he never remembered agreeing to this. Somehow in the course of the afternoon, John had ‘agreed’ to move in with the madman, and most of his meager possessions had, alarmingly, arrived at the flat. Further, John had also ‘agreed’ to go out to dinner with one Sherlock Holmes, and it was at a small table at Angelo’s that John found himself desperately grappling for a conversation starter.   
“So, violin. Do you play in an orchestra ?”  
“No, not really my area.”  
“Perhaps a bit of chamber music then ?”  
“No.”  
Ducking his head a little sheepishly, John pressed, “Duets ?”  
Sherlock let out a tense breath. “While I’m… flattered… by your interest, I consider myself a soloist, and only a soloist.”  
“Right. Okay. It’s all fine. Just… making a bit of conversation.”  
An amused smirk darted across Sherlock’s face, but he quickly diverted his attention back out the large windows.   
***  
Christmas was nearly upon Baker Street, and John could scarcely believe how normal it felt to be living with such a brilliant, yet easily bored, self-proclaimed sociopath (though John wasn’t quite sure he believed all that).   
And now that very ‘sociopath’ was standing at the window, holding an exquisitely expensive violin in those long, delicate fingers. John mused that with long, powerful limbs like that, Sherlock really ought to have picked up viola instead of that tiny violin. Besides, the more somber repertoire of the alto instrument would better suit the moody detective. Perhaps it’s his diva complex, John mused. He always wants the big challenging solo lines, not the boring supporting harmonies.  
Settling into Sherlock’s frenetic runs of a Mendelssohn concerto, John lost himself in Sherlock’s music; his fingers working as quickly as that brilliant mind of his. It was so pleasant to hear something relatively upbeat from the detective, instead of the mournful wails of Sibelius or Vieuxtemps.   
When Sherlock finished the Mendelssohn, he moved immediately into one of his own compositions, a soothing and pensive melody that gently put John to sleep. The detective smirked, and upon finishing his piece, grabbed a blanket from the sofa to drape over his friend. He tucked his violin back into its velour case, but something made him pause on his way to his room. As though he had suddenly caught whiff of an unusual smell, Sherlock stopped at the sofa and dropped the lightest kiss to John’s forehead.  
Maybe he would sleep tonight after all.   
***  
Sherlock was off running about London on some errand for Mycroft, so John finally had 221B to himself. John considered himself a decent player, but he was much too in awe of Sherlock’s talent with the violin to play viola in front of him. It was in these rare moments of quiet that John drew his viola from under his bed, and finally played. He had never been one much for solo pieces (and most viola solos were somewhat dreadful anyway), so he opted to leaf through his old quartet music. Dvorak’s “American” quartet and Smetana’s “From My Life” were among his favorites, not the least for their impressive viola solos which opened each opus.   
In the middle of an impassioned run-through of Weber’s Andante and Hungarian Rondo, John did not hear Sherlock return to the flat. He certainly didn’t hear Sherlock put the kettle on, nor did he notice Sherlock cozying into John’s favourite striped jumper.   
When he was satisfied with his practice session, John came downstairs to find two steaming cups of tea, and one lanky consulting detective kipping on the sofa in navy and white stripes.  
***  
John had fretted and fretted over what to get Sherlock for Christmas. Sherlock fought to suppress dramatic eye-rolls whenever he realized that John was desperately grappling for an appropriate gift for his flat mate. Sherlock, however, knew exactly what he would get for John.  
So it came as no surprise that Sherlock had long ago deduced what John Watson would give him for Christmas. Even knowing what it would be, Sherlock couldn’t suppress a genuine smile when he unwrapped John’s favourite jumper: the navy and white striped one.   
“You’ve borrowed it four times now, and I thought it suited you,” John offers hesitantly.  
“It’s … Thank you, John. Here, I’ve got you something as well.” Sherlock held out a thin package, roughly the size of a sheet of A4.It was wrapped appallingly, but John was so taken aback by Sherlock having gotten him anything at all that he barely took notice.  
Gently, he peeled off the paper to reveal a smooth, green booklet. Handel-Halvorsen Passacaglia for Violin and Viola from Suite No. 7. John ran his hand along the cover, and shook his head gently. His eyes met Sherlock’s.  
“Do you know the piece?”  
“Yes, of course; I played it at uni once, with a friend of mine. Dreadful violinist, but a beautiful piece…”  
“I can assure you, I will be a much more qualified partner.”  
John beamed. “You’re actually going to play it with me?”  
“Naturally. That is the reason why I gave it to you. I’ve already learned my part, but if you’d like to practice first…”  
“No, no. Can we try to run through it? Now?”  
By way of response, Sherlock stood and fetched his violin. John dashed upstairs to grab his viola as Sherlock tuned his strings. Collecting himself, John proceeded back down to the sitting room with his viola gingerly tucked under his right arm, his hands tightening the nut of his bow.   
“It’s been years since I’ve played this, mind. Don’t be too harsh.”  
“That would hardly be in the spirit of Christmas, now would it, John?”  
John scoffed. “Like that would stop you.”  
Sherlock placed his left hand on the fingerboard, long fingers easily finding the first double-stop.   
“Well?”  
John adjusted his part on the stand, and placed his bow. “You start.”  
With a dramatic sniff, the taller man cued the start of the piece, and John read Sherlock’s body for the tempo and style. The piece opened with dramatic and broad strokes, and Sherlock graciously allowed John’s melody lines to shine through, and John picked up the subtle section changes from Sherlock as though they had rehearsed it hundreds of times before.   
In the final section, a mad-dash over the fingerboards with short and wild chords, John and Sherlock turned away from the music to lock eyes. As the piece accelerated to the final chords, both men could feel their pulses rising, but whether it was from the physical exertion the piece required or something else entirely, neither man could tell.  
What they could tell was that when Sherlock signaled the cut-off for the final note, there was something more in the air. Breathing heavily, they carefully set their instruments down without breaking eye contact. John wiped his suddenly sweaty palms on his trousers, and moved towards Sherlock.   
“Thank you,” John said hoarsely.  
Sherlock pulled John to him gently. Bending down, Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s in a feather-light kiss. “Happy Christmas, John,” he breathed against his mouth. John pulled Sherlock down to kiss him again, this time with more pressure, more feeling, just more, and the two of them melted into the sofa.  
There was no urgency, just their bodies pressed together, mouths mingling, tongues caressing, hands roaming, and hearts pounding.   
Sherlock let out a small moan, John’s calloused hands wonderfully scratching at the bare skin under Sherlock’s silk shirt, which had somehow become un-tucked in the last few minutes. Sherlock nuzzled under John’s chin, searching for the soft spot just under his jaw where his viola rested. There was already a faint pinkish mark there, but Sherlock carefully sucked and bit at the tender skin until he was certain a nice bright bruise would form. John gasped a bit, and when Sherlock pulled back to admire his work, John attacked Sherlock’s violin mark, making an even more obvious mark on the detective’s pale skin.   
Eventually, when the kissing slowed to a gentle nuzzling, Sherlock sat up, and wordlessly led John by the hand to his bedroom. They stripped to pants and shirts, climbed under the duvet, and John drifted to sleep in Sherlock’s arms.   
***  
It was barely light outside when Sherlock’s phone went off. It was Lestrade, so Sherlock gently disengaged himself from John and stepped into the hall to talk to the Detective Inspector.   
“What have you got for me?”  
“Sorry to call so early. It’s probably not as interesting as you like, but we’re hoping to wrap things quickly so we can spend some time with the family for Christmas. Can you come?”  
“I’m on my way.”  
Creeping back into his bedroom, Sherlock climbed onto the bed and kissed his doctor awake.  
“Mmm, what’s all this then?”   
“Lestrade called. Murder. Do you want to come or shall I leave you in bed?”  
“No, no, I’ll come. Let me get dressed.”  
***  
Both men had wrapped up against the cold, but it seemed the family whose home was the murder scene very strongly believed in heating. It was sweltering inside, and so Sherlock removed his scarf and John took off his jacket. Seeing the dark, purpled marks under each other’s chin, John found himself once again, giggling at a crime scene with Sherlock Holmes.  
Anderson rolled his eyes and snapped, “Oi, you two why don’t you—What. Is that.” He tapped Donovan on the shoulder and pointed.  
“What the hell have you two been up to then? Somebody finally caught you under the mistletoe?” she teased.  
Exchanging a look, Sherlock replied smoothly, “It’s from my violin.”  
“And my viola,” John managed with a cough.  
But one more look at each other, and the two were bursting with laughter again.  
“Alright, alright, back to work.”   
Lestrade decided it was likely best if they just didn’t know.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the piece the boys played: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Chiz5OEQ1zM
> 
> The musical opinions expressed herein are entirely my own, incredibly biased, violist opinions. 
> 
> Not beta'd or britpicked; all faults my own.


End file.
